


A Dean Tale

by morrezela



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curses, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fairy Tales, M/M, Sex Magic, Sex Pollen, Sibling Incest, Somnophilia, Wincest - Freeform, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morrezela/pseuds/morrezela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An evil witch gets summoned to a town and starts kidnapping people to star in kinked out versions of fairy tales.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dean Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: bottom!Sam, bottom!Dean, suggested creepy things involving masturbation, bears, giants and beanstalks. Sort of somnophilia and heavy use of "X made them do it" dub-con-ish trope. Crack!Fic.

As far as Dean is concerned, he’s had just about enough of fixing other people’s messes. Really. It’s not like there aren’t plenty of creepy, crawly, nasty, evil sons-of-bitches out in the world that just want to snack on humanity for the heck of it.

 

But no. No there is always some asshat out in the world that thinks they need to dabble in the dark arts and bring the world crashing down.

 

That this time it’s a fucking literary professor who feels that children are bereft of an education by having Saturday morning cartoons, or all the time cartoons on cable, instead of reading classic fairy tales?

 

Yeah, Dean’s not on board with that. Sam though… When Sammy first heard about it, he’d had a little bit of sympathy for the whole educational process. Freaking little bookworm. As far as Dean is concerned, Sammy is damn lucky that he was so cute as a baby because he’s gotten annoying as an adult.

 

Not that Dean isn’t still absolutely-fucking-in-love with him, but that isn’t the point. Sam is a waste of brain space. He could be using his noggin for good like inventing new ways to stretch their silver supply by melting it down and mixing it with standard buckshot so that the pellets achieve a deeper penetration in the monster of the week or something. He shouldn’t be all sympathizing with the jackass who thinks that using magic is a great way to further a kid’s education.

 

Not that Sam felt that connection for the guy very long because the dude, as every single beginning witch that Dean has ever met, majorly bungled up his spell.

 

Now, Dean’s watched a LOT of porn in his life. He likes porn. Porn is reliable in its cheesiness, and it doesn’t give him sexually transmitted diseases. Not that he worries much about that because his practically celibate brother is always the one getting his wiener in trouble. Dean learned the value of condoms early in life. He is a fucking paragon of safe sex and taught his brother all of the pertinent information.

 

Their dad was apparently not that smart because, hello, little brother Winchester… Milligan.

 

As much as Sam hates it, he’s always taken after their father more than Dean has. Dean can’t come up with another reason why Sam is always the one running off to free clinics for venereal disease shots unless he’s cursed or something.

 

Come to think of it, there is probably a reason that Sam keeps in it his pants. Sam’s had the worst luck with his sexual partners. They’re always dying on him. Dean wonders if maybe his curse theory has some merit. They definitely need to make sure that Sammy’s wang isn’t cursed because no guy should have to put up with a cursed penis.

 

He is going to put that on his to-do list just as soon as he gets out of the current predicament that he’s in. Namely, he’s stuck on his back, naked mind you, on a giant bed that’s covered in purple satin sheets. His legs are splayed apart, and while normally Dean doesn’t have anything against showing the world how awesome little Dean is, he kind of likes to choose the what, when, how and why of it.

 

He also likes to be able to move. Opening his eyes is generally a big plus as well. He’s never been one for the kinky blindfolding and sensory deprivation. It’s a hunter thing. The more senses you have, the less likely that you’re going to wake up being eaten alive by a swamp monster.

 

Ellen not being in the room would be the best bonus ever. He’s getting damn tired of listening to her clean the place. The place also includes him, and he’s all for a little kinky shit, but while a feather duster might be lots of fun in a different scenario, having a parental figure dust you with one while she’s under the same magic spell as you isn’t so much fun as it is mortifying beyond all belief.

 

Also? He thinks that Ellen might have put lip gloss on him and mascara on his eyelashes to improve his beauty. Dean Winchester does not do makeup.

 

It all started out innocently enough. Jo called for help on a job. He and Sam were crashing at Bobby’s, so they packed up and came with.

 

Things were going swimmingly well. Sure, Sam was disturbed by the wolf blowing the pigs in a pile of straw, but it hadn’t been the worst thing that Dean had ever seen. Of course, Sam’s body lying dead from a spinal cord stabbing really just couldn’t be topped in the most-horrible-and-depressing-thing-ever department, so he could give his brother a pass on that one.

 

It seemed that the spell had needed to burn written word to be effective, and Mr. Professor guy couldn’t bring himself to torch any actual books, so he’d burned skin magazines instead. Dean still hasn’t forgiven Sam for the bitch face he pulled when Dean pointed out that nudie mags have just as valid a reason to exist as the story of Snow-Fucking-White and her damn dwarves.

 

Like she was so, ‘white as snow’ after the whole woodsman incident anyway. Did people really buy that line about why he couldn’t bring himself to kill her? She totally gave the guy a blow job or at least a little hand action in payment for her life.

 

Then again, Sam’s look might just have been about the fact that Dean had no sympathy for the professor getting snared into his own spell. Personally, he kind of thought it fitting that he’d been turned into Puss in Boots minus the cat tail and adding the kinky patent leather, platform rockers boots and a creepy dude that was trying to play with his ‘kitty.’

 

Now that Dean was stuck in his own nightmare, he could begrudgingly admit that Sam had a point about the whole virtue of kindness thing. He might even tell his brother that if Sam hurried the fuck up and rescued him. He might, but only if Sam didn’t make any damsel in distress references, because that would be too much.

 

That was, of course, assuming that Sam was still free to rescue him.

 

By the time that they had finally arrived, Jo and Ellen had already gone into the forest, but they’d been smart enough to leave notes for them to follow. It was a nice gesture and actually pretty convenient. Dean would’ve even been impressed at their hunting skill if not for the fact that the cursed section of the woods was sparkly and had a goddamned giant bean stalk sticking out of it.

 

It was sort of a really obvious clue as to where the bad stuff was going down at.

 

Things had been going fairly well, if you could ignore that gut churning moment that they’d been checking out a mysterious house and saw a blonde chick having a foursome with some bears, declaring one, “too big,” another, “too small,” and the third, “oh, oh Juuuust Riiight!”

 

Dean has never seen Bobby look that green. Not ever.

 

Then they reached the base of the beanstalk with the requisite giant who was, well, jerking his beanstalk. Twenty foot dicks are not clean when they come, and that is all Dean’s ever going to think about that. As soon as he is free from his satin prison, he is going to drink until he cannot remember being flung into a pond, complete with a frog croaking dirty porn phrases, by the force from the wave of giant come that landed on him.

 

Pond scum was preferable to giant spunk, so he’d considered himself lucky until he pulled his soaking wet self out of the pond and came face to face with an actual witch-crone-evil-kind-of-womanly-but-not-really-looking-person-monster. Who, it turned out, had been what Mr. Smarty-Pants-Professor had actually summoned with his screwed up spell.

 

Luckily, or unluckily as it turned out, Dean was ‘far too pretty’ to kill or turn into a swan or something. The witch had mesmerized Dean into following her. She’d lead him to an enchanted castle that she had materialized in the middle of the forest, and he’d witnessed more depraved fairy tales than he’d ever wanted to while she marched him into it and up into its highest tower. Seriously, the bitch needed to die just for ruining any fun he might have gotten out of that particular plot for porn.

 

He’d glimpsed Jo briefly. Little Jo Peepshow had lost her “sheep” and didn’t know where to find it. Ellen was gonna be pissed over that one. There were going to be heads rolling and Momma Bear style vengeance. Just, hopefully, not the kind that involved actual bears and annoying little squeaky voiced women.

 

He’d glimpsed the bed briefly before he’d been forced down on it. He remembered the garish, girly colors of the room and the sight of Ellen’s glazed over face as she began to strip Dean of his clothes at the witch’s command.

 

Ellen had only whispered, “Yes, Stepmother,” in a submissive tone that Dean would’ve sworn the woman was incapable of even making.

 

He’d been unable to move as he’d been put on display and was unable to resist when the witch ordered him to sleep. Dean would object, just on principle mind you, about the lack of a prick from a spinning wheel, but the word “prick” makes him think that it would’ve been bad.

 

Cinderellen is humming a happy tune now, and he loves her, he does, but her pitch is as bad as Sammy’s, and he isn’t so sure that there aren’t mice answering her call.

 

“Goddamned witch,” Bobby’s gruff tone catches Dean’s ear, and his moment of jubilation is eclipsed by the realization that Bobby has come to save him.

 

Sleeping Beauty needs a kiss to be woken. Dean doesn’t want to kiss Bobby. He certainly doesn’t want to do anything depraved with him, and that has to be where the curse is going.

 

“Don’t worry, Dean, I’ll get you out of there in… Why hello there, fair maiden.” Bobby’s tone turns dreamy, and Dean knows that he’s been hit with witch mojo. His heart races in fear and indignity. He is not a fair maiden, and he doesn’t want beard burn.

 

Thankfully, or unthankfully as his ears can still hear, Bobby sweeps Ellen off her feet moments later, whispering filthy porn dialogue about cinders and clean scrubbing and something about glass stripper heels.

 

Dean doesn’t want to know.

 

With Bobby and Ellen off having surprisingly nasty sounding sex, Dean is left to look pretty and contemplate the general unfairness of the world and the total awesomeness of Metallica. He tries to remember what the odometer reading was on the Impala the last time that he’d done a tune up on her, but stops when all that does is make him anxious because he isn’t quite sure when that was, and his baby is getting up there in years. He owes it to her to take good care of her engine.

 

“Oh, my yes. I does fit.” Bobby’s groan makes little Dean and the twins try to crawl back inside big Dean’s body.

 

“That is the nastiest thing I’ve ever heard, and I just saw Jo having pillow talk with her own vagina.” Sam’s voice sounds equal parts distressed and disgusted.

 

And, yeah, Bobby and Ellen are gross and all, but there is big brother rescuing to be done. Psychological trauma can be dealt with later. Dean would so tell his brother that if he could move his greased up hooker lips.

 

“Okay, let’s see what I can do about… Oh, Dean. Dude, tell me you’re not Sleeping Beauty.”

 

And really? That isn’t at all fair, because if Dean could tell Sam anything it would be that his gigantic ass is moving way too slow when there’s a witch they needed to be killing.

 

“I told you to stop with the flirting and using your looks to get out of situations, but did you listen? No, of course not. You’re damn lucky you’re not Snow White getting gang banged by a group of dwarves. Freaking ruby red lips and stupid girly lashes,” Sam mutters as he runs his gigantic hands over Dean’s body.

 

Had Dean been able to say something, he would’ve asked his brother if he was looking for an ‘on’ switch, only that answer becomes obvious as Sam’s paws are slipping between Dean’s legs to give the family jewels a thorough inspection.

 

It isn’t as if Dean hasn’t had a fantasy or three-hundred-eighty-seven about Sam, but none of them have ever involved getting it on because of a freaky witch’s curse. He’s spent years hiding his unnatural man love from Sam. He doesn’t intend to have anything start now.

 

“God, Dean. So big.” Sam’s voice is reverent.

 

Okay, so Dean can give him that one. He is very gifted in the manhood department. He might not have had a few fairy godmothers, or one creepy ass demon, floating over his crib as a baby, but his cock is impressive, and its back-up singers are just as big.

 

To put it modestly, Dean Winchester is fucking hung, and he is damned proud of it.

 

A cackle, because what else would an evil witch do, interrupts Sam’s grope fest.

 

“Incest! How lovely, but I don’t believe the story of Oedipus was a fairy tale.” She sneers.

 

Sam’s hands abandon their pleasant task, and the scuffling sounds that echo in the room indicate that he is fighting with the witch.

 

In vain, Dean tries to open his eyes, but they remain just as unresponsive as the rest of his body save for his sort of brainless dick that is still half hard. Seriously, he might have to take it to counseling .Brother lust is all well and good, but it shouldn’t still be with the frisky making when it sounds like Sammy is in trouble.

 

The wheeze of a choked breath eventually sounds in the room, but it isn’t Sam’s. Dean knows Sam’s choking sounds intimately. They’ve haunted his dreams for years, and they feature prominently in his line of work. He’s never been quite sure why the monsters of the week always try to choke his brother, he just knows that they do. It used to be always on a Thursday, but they’ve taken to Fridays more recently. He thinks it might be a weekend thing. Starting it off right with a good hunter choking.

 

“If you kill me, you’ll never save him. He’ll be stuck forever.” The witch taunts Sam.

 

For a split second, Dean feels worried that Sam is going to give in, but predictably Sam doesn’t have a chance to do that because something magical happens that sounds really weird and suspiciously like foggy swirling mists and all of the doors and windows slamming shut before they disappear into the walls.

 

It’s sad that Dean actually knows what that sounds like from real life experience instead of hours of mindless television viewing.

 

Sam huffs and grunts and scuffles about the room, but Dean knows that Sam isn’t going to find an exit.

 

An absence of an exit means that Sam’s got plenty of time to rescue his beloved brother from his naked slumber. Not only is it the thing to do if Sam doesn’t want to get tinnitus from Dean’s cock rock tapes being played extra loud in retribution for a slow rescue , but another hunter back in action would be a good thing.

 

“This is going to be so awkward.” Sam mumbles as the bed dips under his returning weight.

 

Dean really sort of hates his cock at the moment. It stands up and preens the instant that Sam’s body is resting next to his own. He’s all about the easy, but there are some instances where even Dean Winchester could afford to play a little coy.

 

“So look, Dean, I’m not sure if you can hear me in there, but you’ve got to know that I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think that it’s necessary. But, um, I do love you in a completely irrational way, right? So it shouldn’t matter that it’s not the epic big love of romance; it’s still our first kiss.”

 

Well, isn’t that just the kind of declaration of love Dean has always hoped for?

 

Not that Sam should be giving Dean a romantic confession, but still. It’d be better than, “Oh, hey Dean, so I’m kinda fucked in the head about my love for you, but don’t worry; it’s completely platonic.”

 

Plus there would be the whole upside of Dean not having to feel guilty because not all of his limitless Sam love is platonic in nature. He loves his Sammy that way. He isn’t proud of it, but denial hasn’t been working so well for him lately. It hasn’t for the past several yea… okay so it probably hasn’t ever worked for him. Breaking up with denial seems to be the way to go. He’s trying that whole self-aware-but-lying-to-everyone-else thing.

 

Sam’s lips are dry and a little chapped when they push against Dean’s. It figures. His one chance at getting a guilt free smooch from the love of his goddamned life, and it isn’t good. He’s making Sam put on lip balm as soon as they get out of this mess. He doesn’t care how much his little brother whines. Dean might not be getting any additional kisses from him, but there is still the Winchester reputation to uphold. Girls are so not into the chapped lips kisses. Not even the ones who profess to love the ‘rugged’ look.

 

“Fuck,” Sam grunts as he pulls his lips away. “That didn’t work.”

 

Again with the obvious statements, Dean needs to get Sam out of libraries more often.

 

For all that the kissing didn’t work, Sam isn’t moving off the bed. His hands seem to keep dancing just above Dean’s skin, but not touching. It’s kind of funny that Sam is fighting it when he’s already had his hands on Dean’s junk earlier, but that’s Sam for you.

 

“God, you’re so hot.” Sam whispers as his fingers finally trail over the skin surrounding Dean’s belly button.

 

Dean really hopes that Sam isn’t talking about his body temperature. Because he’s very horny, and if he’s got to be stuck naked on a bed that is covered in purple silk sheets, he’d at least like to get laid.

 

In seconds, Dean’s worries are gone because Sam’s chapped lips are back on his, and this time Sam is trying to shove his tongue into Dean’s mouth. The addition of tongue really changes the whole kissing scenario. Sam’s technique improves greatly.

 

Then Sam is gone again, but the sound of heavy boots getting kicked off along with the jangle of a belt buckle and the gritch of a zipper being pulled down let Dean know that Sam is getting with the naked program.

 

“Lube, lube, lube,” Sam chants to himself. His voice echoes as he searches around the room, but soon enough the bed is shifting with his returning weight.

 

“Look, I know that this isn’t exactly consensual, but I figure it isn’t the worst thing that either of us has ever done, right? And it should work, right? The witch has to play by the rules she set, so something of a romantic nature has got to get you on your feet again.”

 

Dean silently agrees in that hypothetical way he would if he indeed did feel all platonic and shit for Sam instead of sneaking dirty looks at Sammy’s backside every time that the sasquatch bent over.

 

He fully expects to feel a pair of lubed up fingers start poking at his ass, but all that he can hear is the squelch of wet fingers rubbing against skin and Sam’s not really sexy grunts.

 

It makes sense. Just because Dean’s all with the enchanted sex and the naughty boy love, that doesn’t mean that Sam is going to be into it. He’s probably tugging on his limp dick trying to get it up.

 

The thought makes Dean a little depressed, and his erection softens. It doesn’t go down a lot because the image of his Sammy teasing himself up from a flaccid state is really, really appealing. Still, he’ll take what he can get in terms of manly pride. He thinks it is a good thing that he isn’t all over the convenient excuse to have sex thing and is feeling a modicum of worry and guilt about it.

 

“So,” Sam grunts out after a few more seconds of silence, “I think that I’m partially immune to these spells or something. I mean, I can feel the pressure of the curse, but its impact is sort of hit and miss. I’m guessing it has something to do with the whole demon blood thing. Just thought you should know. Because, yeah…”

 

Little Dean wilts a little more at that because he just does not like anything that has to do with Sam and demon blood except for the moments where Sam swears the stuff off.

 

“Fuck,” Sam curses. “Look, Dean, I know you’re old and everything, but if you could keep it up, this’ll go easier.”

 

Sam is going to pay for that one. Dean’s going to do something horrible to his brother for insinuating that he has performance issues because of his age.

 

Dean thinks of the filthiest fantasy that he’s had recently. That it happens to be getting him and Sam a cozy little room at a ski lodge and drinking hot cocoa in front of a fireplace, romantically declaring their love for each other and then fucking like ski bunnies on the white bearskin rug that is conveniently spread out by said fireplace is nobody’s business but Dean’s.

 

He can feel the blood rush to his cock and the peculiar feeling of precome beading up at his tip.

 

“I’m going to take that as a sign you’re in there.” Sam laughs, but it isn’t a happy or even all that amused kind of sound. It is pure nervousness, and Dean would love to be able to do anything other than make his damned dick twitch so that he could reassure him in some way.

 

“FUCK!” Bobby’s yell startles Dean, and it does the same thing to Sam if the way that he crashes down onto Dean is any indication.

 

Ellen’s throaty moan follows, and if Sam’s weight wasn’t pressing so sweetly against Dean’s cock he’d have lost his stiffy entirely. Seriously. It was like having to listen to his parents get it on.

 

Dean wonders if he should appreciate the irony of being grossed out by the sounds of two non-related adults having sex when he’s chomping at the bit to get a little action from his Sam. He’s guessing he shouldn’t. He should be more involved with the whole self recrimination for incest thing. At least, he should be involved in that more than he is in the whole thinking it’s gross that Bobby has a magically induced sex life thing.

 

“Okay,” Sam says as his smothering weight disappears form Dean’s chest, “let’s do this.”

 

Dean expects to feel slick fingers poke at his asshole. Instead, Sam’s ginormous hand wraps around his length, smoothing lube against his shaft. It feels good. He’d moan if he could, but he can’t. It’s sort of sweet that Sammy is using lube to jack him off before he plays bury the sausage.

 

Sweet turns to burning hot when Sam’s weight shifts again, and Dean feels Sam’s thighs on the outside of his own hips.

 

He doesn’t have time to argue with his hind brain about what that means before Sam is tilting Dean’s cock to the side a bit. The next thing Dean knows, his crown is pushing at a very slick little hole, and he cannot for the life of him hear Bobby and Ellen’s little love tryst because what blood that isn’t in his cock has rushed up to his ears.

 

Sam doesn’t grunt as Dean penetrates him, he out and out moans. He moans like he wants it. He moans like he couldn’t wait for the opportunity to have Dean’s dick shoved up right inside his tight little hole to keep it warm and snug.

 

His weight doesn’t descend downwards very fast, but Dean can understand that. Sammy isn’t the type of guy to experimentally shove things up his ass, and it’s got to burn. Plus, he’s putting on a pretty good show of moaning and groaning like a porn start for Dean. That’s got to take some effort.

 

Finally, Sam’s backside is resting in Dean’s lap.

 

“I hate you, so much, for not lying about how big that thing is.” Sam moans as he rocks his hips forward just the tiniest bit. His channel clings at Dean’s cock as he moves, but he doesn’t shift enough to make the bend painful or even unpleasant.

 

With a grunt, Sam pulls himself up from Dean’s lap and almost slams back down. His weight is punishing on Dean’s hips, but the tight squeeze of him all around is making Dean run high on sex endorphins. That’s his Sammy down there riding him, and Dean literally can’t do anything but go along for the, ahem, ride.

 

He can feel free to imagine Sam’s face twisting in pleasure instead of pain. He can imagine Sam’s well endowed cock straining up against those ridiculous stomach muscles of his, red and swollen and begging to be touched.

 

“Uh, Dean,” Sam moans as he comes down at a different angle, and Dean figures that Sam must’ve finally found his prostate.

 

The idea does all sorts of crazy things to Dean’s libido. In his mind, he can pretend that Sam is getting off on it. In his mind, Sammy likes how big Dean is, and he loves how the head of Dean’s dick digs in just right against that little sensitive spot inside of him.

 

In Dean’s fantasy world, Sam is going to start holding his fucking hand in the Impala and yelling at him about the loudness of his rock music because he wants to preserve Dena’s hearing for their golden years instead of Sam just being a whiny bitch because he was born with horse shit taste in music.

 

One more slide and Dean is shooting his load. It’s embarrassingly fast for him, but even though his fantasizing is great, the reality is that Sam is just doing this to save their hides with a small side of magic induced lust. Dean isn’t going to make his brother suffer just to get a more satisfying fuck out of it.

 

Problem is his orgasm doesn’t mobilize him.

 

“GODDAMNIT!” Sam yells as he pulls off.

 

Well, if Dean wasn’t soft from coming, he’d sure have lost his erection at that proclamation. Cold water being dashed on a guy’s dreams is just not cool.

 

“Fucking witch!” Sam swears as he rolls Dean over onto his stomach. “Of course I have to be the one fucking you. I’m the fucking prince. Stupid predetermined gender roles.”

 

A large finger shoves its way into Dean’s ass. If it weren’t for his orgasm, he figures it would hurt a bit even with the lube that Sam has it slathered in.

 

“Come on. Come on.” Sam whines.

 

If Dean had thoughts of getting it up again to enjoy the backdoor action, Sam’s obvious annoyance would have killed them.

 

By the time that Sam’s got three fingers in Dean, Sam is alternately whining and swearing. He pulls his hand out, and the squirting of lube is loud in the room.

 

This time, Dean is sure that Sam is busy teasing himself up, instead of open which he really wishes he’d had the time to fantasize about while it was happening, but as Sam’s lube covered hands land on Dean’s ass, he realizes that he underestimated his brother again. Apparently little Sammy just needed a quick lube job for the mission.

 

Somehow he feels dirtier having his ass spread open for Sam’s taking than he did when he was actually doing the penetrating. It’s absolute straight-ish man bullshit because given the options, boning your straight, not incestuous brother, is theoretically worse than having him screw you. Somehow letting Sam top makes it easier to bear the burden of what he’s convolutedly putting him through.

 

Yes, Dean knows that he isn’t the one that is making Sam do this. That doesn’t matter, thank you very much. His job is to take care of Sammy, and he messed it up by getting cursed in the first place.

 

Sam’s cock pushes against Dean’s hole, and for the briefest of moments it hurts as the little sucker refuses to give up the goods. Then it relents, and Sam doesn’t ease in so much as he just keeps gliding. Like everything else in their relationship, once Dean gives in, he’s all in, and that goes for his asshole too.

 

“Uhn,” Sam grunts when he bottoms out. “I hope this works.” He whispers against Dean’s neck before he starts thrusting.

 

The pace isn’t brutal or fast so much as it is relentless and machine like. It’s like Sam’s got a damn metronome in his head keeping time. Oh, he adjusts Dean’s hips and the angle of his strokes to aim for Dean’s prostate, but the sheer mathematical precision shows that Sam doesn’t want to be doing this.

 

Jealousy rears up in Dean’s head. It’s ugly and unwanted, but he can’t help wondering who Sam is imagining that he’s fucking. If Sam has to screw him by rote, then he certainly doesn’t have his erection by virtue of Dean’s pretty backside and mascara enhanced lashes.

 

Sam lets out a soft hack, there isn’t any other word for it, and Dean feels him come in his ass.

 

For one terrifying moment, he still can’t move, and Dean swears that if the witch cursed them with true love’s first gang bang, he’s going to make her death very painful. Then his eyes fly open as his body comes back online.

 

Disgusted with himself, Dean rolls Sam off of him and scrambles to pull the hideous sheets over himself like a freaking maiden who just lost her virtue.

 

He’s trying to figure out just how to gloss over the whole thing with Sam so that they can pull themselves together to go end the whole curse, when Sam beats him to it.

 

“So, we should maybe not ever talk about this, huh?” Sam suggests.

 

It’s so un-Sam like that Dean shakes his head to clear the cobwebs from it. Then he glares at his brother because, well, he’s feeling ornery, okay? He’s supposed to get fucking hearts and roses once his Prince Charming comes to rescue him, and he so isn’t getting that. Then his own brother has the balls to steal his own line from him, it’s shaping up to be a fucking awesome day.

 

“Yeah, whatever. Glad you got your rocks off once this century.” Dean growls.

 

“Dean…” Sam says with that perfect, long suffering voice of his.

 

“I mean, obviously I was a bad lay because if I had as blue of balls as you do, I’d be fucking thrilled I got any at all even if it was man ass.”

 

“You’re my brother.” Sam says like somehow Dean has forgotten that fact.

 

“I know that!” Dean yells as he looks around the room for something that isn’t Sam’s that he can wear.

 

“Look, Dean. I had to do it, okay?”

 

Dean glowers back in response. He can feel the way his eyelashes cling to each other because of the mascara.

 

“I know that too. Was here, you know?”

 

“Then why are we talking about this?”

 

“Because! Because I’m, I’m…” Dean trails off because he doesn’t know what he is except for terminally stupid. He can’t exactly admit to being in love with his brother, and any other argument he’s got is stupid and pointless.

 

“Is it because you don’t believe me?” Sam asks. The question isn't subdued or hesitant. It’s straight out interrogative.

 

“Don’t be stupid.” Dean says as he studies the sheets he’s wrapped up in. They’re hideously girly and garish enough to belong in the motel rooms that they stay at. On the other hand, even a gaudy purple toga would be better than hunting in the buff. Dean might be a bit of an exhibitionist on occasion, but he has no desire to get injured in sensitive places because he's naked.

 

“Look, I know that you’re…” Sam trails off as Ellen starts screaming in ecstasy and praising the virtues of beards and oral sex.

 

Dean kind of wants to Johnny Cash his ear drums, only he left his pencil in the clothes that he no longer has.

 

“Okay, that’s just nasty.” Dean doesn’t bother repressing the shudder that works its way through his body.

 

“So was what I just did.” Sam points out.

 

Dean waves a dismissive hand. “The good kind of nasty,” he replies distractedly as he starts reciting the Latin alphabet in his head to block out the noises.

 

“The what?” Sam asks, his voice rising in pitch at the end like he can’t believe that Dean just said that.

 

Dean maybe takes too long in responding. He hadn’t been really thinking when he spoke, and by the time he comes up with a suitable joke, Sam’s face has gone from shocked to disbelieving.

 

“You’re joking.” Sam says flatly.

 

Dean shrugs and wraps his fists in the thrice damned sheets. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. Okay? It’s not anything you need to worry about.”

 

Sam’s answer to that is to pounce on the bed. Naked or not, Dean Winchester is not going to allow his little brother to pummel him. Not even with a not quite admission of gay love hanging over his head. Dean’s got standards, okay? Not really great ones what with his desire to bang his Sammy, but they’re still there somewhere inside, slowly being choked to death with his unnatural lusts and excessive vices.

 

Only instead of taking a swing, Sam is stealing a kiss.

 

So Dean does what any guy would do. He punches Sam and pins him to the bed.

 

“Dude!” Sam protests.

 

Dean can’t really fault him for the indignation, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to let Sam win one. Even though Dean just did an asshole thing, and Sam actually has a right to be pissed, there is the whole matter of macho male pride at stake.

 

So Dean kisses Sam instead and shows him how it’s supposed to be done. Pretty soon Sam is kissing back and making very happy noises. This is probably because Dean is a goddamned awesome kisser, but for the first time in his long and illustrious sexual history, Dean would like for it to mean something more.

 

Reluctantly, Dean breaks off the kiss. Sam’s mouth chases after his, and Dean would dearly like to give into it, but he can’t let himself. He needs to know the whys and wherefores and all those stupid, chick things about this that he would normally be fine with not knowing. He needs to know if it’s just some stupid mojo that is screwing with Sam’s head, making him want the kisses.

 

“Look, Sammy” Dean begins, his voice gruff from the sexing dammit and not from emotion, “I kind of love you in a not so normal way.”

 

His declaration of love is met with a high pitched shriek and wail. Then the walls of the palace begin to rumble and warp and the bed begins to shift and shake. The next thing he knows, Ellen is cursing at Bobby to get his fat, and apparently ‘Pillsbury Doughboy-ish,’ ass off her.

 

Sam, the bastard, starts laughing.

 

Dean punches him and rolls off the bed, wrapping the now manly gray and moth eaten sheet around his hips. “Fucker,” he accuses.

 

“Oh come on, Dean. It’s funny. You just finished a hunt with a declaration of love. Freaking true love conquered all, and it was you who did it. Tell me you see the irony in it.” Sam is much too amused for Dean’s liking, but he can’t exactly deny any of Sam’s observations.

 

Still, that doesn’t mean he isn’t humiliated and embarrassed. He just put his heart out there, and Sam is laughing. Dean isn’t made of stone.

 

“Hey,” Sam’s voice is softer when he speaks again, “you okay?”

 

Oh, that is just not cool. Dean is not going to deal with Sam being all concerned right now. He is going to find his boots and then his keys and then he is going to find the nearest bar and fuck the daylights out of the first willing woman he meets.

 

Sam’s hands clamp down on Dean’s shoulders and spin him around. Dean would’ve fought the attempt, but they’re standing on the warped wood floors of some abandoned hunting shack now that the curses and spells have gone away. He doesn’t want splinters in uncomfortable places if he can avoid it.

 

“Hey, I love you too.” Sam tells him.

 

“Yeah, heard that,” Dean chokes out bitterly.

 

“I don’t think you did.”

 

“You said…” Dean doesn’t get to snottily quote his brother in a mocking voice because Sam is busy kissing him again. This time it’s with lots of tongue, and it’s messy with spit so Dean doesn’t notice the chapped lips as much.

 

“I said that I love you, okay?” Sam says when he lets Dean’s lips go.

 

Dean can’t help it. He smiles like a stupid girl and ducks his chin a little in that way that he hasn’t since he was twelve and faking shyness to distract some friendly and overly helpful lady from the sounds of a seriously weird exorcism that was going on.

 

Of course, now his shyness and pleased blush are all fucking genuine, and Sam knows it. He is never going to live it down, as a matter of fact. He should probably go find a gun and…

 

“You know if you shoot either of us, we’re never going to get to have awesome, mind blowing, true love sex.” Sam tells him.

 

Dean shoves at Sam’s unfairly gigantic shoulders. “Psychic freak.”

 

“Super intelligent, younger brother who knows you,” Sam corrects

.

“Freak,” Dean insists.

 

“Pervert,” Sam rejoins.

 

Dean grins at that one. “Damned straight. So find me some clothes, Bitch. I’m not some fancy emperor, and we’ve got consummating to do.”

 

“Thought we did that already.”

 

“Yeah, but I have to spirit you away on my noble steed and take you to my castle or some such bullshit.”

 

“Dude!” Sam objects. “I’m the knight. I get to drive.”

 

Dean flips Sam off and continues his search for clothing. He crows when he finds it shoved in a corner with some seriously skeevy looking skin mags. They’re all moldy and thirty years old. It’s a waste of porn, but it’s seventies porn, so it’s not like it was good or anything.

 

“Tell me you’re not cheering over the porn.” Sam says from behind Dean.

 

“Sammy, haven’t you heard? I’m all about the cock now.” Dean chides him as he wriggles into his clothes as fast as possible. In the background he can hear Jo shrieking and various townspeople panicking. They need to get gone as soon as possible.

 

“You’re so romantic.” Sam scoffs.

 

Dean shakes his head and then, for good measure, his ass. “Come on, you know you want your fairy tail ending.”

 

Sam sighs and follows like a martyr, but Dean is smug anyway because that isn’t just Sammy’s gun in his pants. He is so getting laid tonight. And maybe, just maybe he’ll get to cuddle afterwards.

 

As far as Dean is concerned, fixing other people’s messes is freaking great.


End file.
